


Lightning

by Deejaymil



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Did anyone order the Spencer Sandwich?, Drunken Shenanigans, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Idiots in Love, M/M, Multi, Past Relationship(s), Requited Unrequited Love, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 15:08:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12135129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deejaymil/pseuds/Deejaymil
Summary: Out of the all the strange things Spencer Reid has ever asked her to do, this probably tops out as the strangest.





	Lightning

Out of the all the strange things Spencer Reid has ever asked her to do, this probably tops out as the strangest.

“You want me to go where?” Emily asks, because she’s eighty percent sure the words ‘jazz club’ and ‘come with me’ didn’t just consecutively bounce their way from his mouth. It’s about as surprising as the first time she’d seen him shirtless, shyly covering his dick despite all her focus being locked on the neat black tattoo across his heart: **U+2608** , and he’d refused to explain what it meant. She touches that tattoo now, tracing the firm lines and wondering about all the shades of himself he keeps hidden.

But he says again: “You should come with me tonight, to a jazz club.” If he wasn’t laying naked on the insanely expensive sheets her mother had bought her as a housewarming gift, she might think she’s imagining this whole thing. But he is, all bones and legs against the dark blue, and she readjusts herself on the towel he insists on to avoid the ‘wet spot’ and thinks maybe they’re getting a little too close to couple-y for comfort.

“I didn’t know you were into jazz,” Emily says curiously. It’s not like she _would_ know. Hell, she’s known the guy for three years and been banging him for one of those, and she still doesn’t know what type of music he likes or how he likes his pancakes—although she knows his favourite Doctor and that he puts his socks on before his pants—so maybe couple-y isn’t really a problem here.

“I’m not,” replies Spencer. He rolls closer, the dawn light leaking through the curtains onto both their legs as he looks thoughtful and traces his thumb down the line of her thigh. “I mean, I am. Sort of. Some of it. I have fond memories. But, tonight, I have an invite—my friend is in town and playing. I didn’t really want to go alone, I feel so incredibly awkward sitting alone at these things.”

“You have a friend who plays jazz?” It’s not that she doesn’t believe him; it’s just that it’s really fucking hard to believe him.

“Uh huh. From New Orleans.”

She’d query deeper about this startling turn of events, but his wandering thumb has been replaced by his mouth and he’s working his way up to her hip. Yesterday had been hell, ending with no good answers, and they’re both clingier after those kinds of cases. It’s why he’s here instead of home; it’s why she flirting far beyond the line of ‘professionalism’.

But, damnit, they’re grown adults and the Bureau should remove the stick from its ass if it thinks its agents aren’t going to be playing the horizontal tango once in a while. Casually. She refuses to break her ‘non-commitment’ streak with Reid, of all people, and, thankfully, he seems inclined to agree. She wondered sometimes who’d broken his heart before her to make him so flighty but then, in the same thought, usually come to the conclusion that he’d never given his heart away to be broken.

“Don’t distract me,” she scolds, cupping his chin with her hand and frowning at him. “What am I supposed to expect from this ‘friend’ of yours, huh? He’s going to be weird, isn’t he?”

And Spencer just smiles, murmurs, “You have no idea,” and returns to his work.

He’s frustrating, sometimes, but she wouldn’t have him any other way.

 

* * *

 

He’s bizarrely nervous about introducing Emily to Ethan. He’s not ashamed of them—either of them—but there’s nothing more daunting then two lives meeting, and Spencer is private enough that it’s a discomfort to have these two _particular_ lives meeting. His pre-BAU years crashing up against the now? It’s a terrifying thought. It’s not like there’s anything he’d hide from that time, not really. Emily has already seen him in all his awkward glory; from messing up in the field to being revoltingly inept in the bedroom. What more can Ethan add to that that will change her opinion of him?

But, still, as they pay for entry and a table and are shown to the nicer kind of couch-style dining lounge, he’s an anxious mess. Emily, as always, is gorgeous, dressed beautifully and somehow managing to look both effortlessly upmarket and downright casual all at once in nice jeans and a deep blue cashmere sweater that he can’t help but keep touching just to enjoy how soft and warm it is.

“You look fine,” she assures him, as he waits until she’s seated and slips in beside her, checking his hair in the reflection on the wine bottle that came with the table. He wonders if it’s the kind of wine that Rossi would declare passable and then decides not to check. “Why are you so nervous? I doubt your friend is going to care if your tie matches your jacket.”

“Does it?” he asks, glancing down. He’d gone for ‘fun’ instead of ‘professional’ and he’s wondering now if that was a mistake. It’s been years since he’s seen Ethan, _years_ , not since… well, not since _that time_ , and while he has better hair now and is slightly fitter, maybe he’s—

“Spencer.” Emily’s voice is sharp. He twitches up from trying to readjust his tie and stares at her. “Calm down. Your friend invited you here—he’s not going to judge you based on what you’re wearing.”

“You don’t know that,” Spencer protests. “You don’t know _him_. And you look wonderful—in comparison, I’m—”

“Spencer!”

The voice is unmistakable. Spencer turns just in time to get a face-full of Ethan’s chest as the man exuberantly hugs his head while still standing, smothering Spencer’s muffled, “Ethan!”

They break apart, Ethan’s mouth split into a wide grin, and Spencer notes in quick succession: he’s been working out, he’s as broad as ever, his hair is longer and tied back, his beard is neater, he’s wearing stage make-up, and—he stops noting and skips his eyes away from his friend’s clothes. Normal clothes. Yeah, they’re just normal clothes. Like a musician would wear. Nothing strange there, nothing _distracting_ —

“Hi, I’m Emily,” he can distantly hear Emily saying through his embarrassment at letting his gaze skim decidedly downwards, “Spencer’s co-worker. Thank you so much for the invitation.”

“It’s my pleasure. I’d wondered if Spencer had found himself a friend, figured he’d never tell me unless I tricked it out of him. And, here you are, _far_ out of his league; I’m Ethan. Ethan Coiro.”

“Don’t flirt with her,” Spencer scolds automatically, both of them staring at him. Oops. “Uh. I mean… you haven’t changed a _bit,_ have you?”

Emily’s smiling, a little confused he thinks, but easy-going enough that she’ll follow his lead, and Ethan begins to laugh. “Spence,” he begins, dropping his hand to Spencer’s shoulder and smiling down at him, warm and familiar-smelling and _here_ , “you have _no_ idea.”

 

* * *

 

Ethan, as it turns out, is absolutely not what she expected. The friendliness doesn’t surprise her—she doubts Spencer has ever made friends with anyone cruel—but the flirting _does_. Knowing how awkward Morgan makes Spencer feel when he’s trying to set him up, it’s a surprise to find that he willingly seems to invite the kind of friends who are like that with him.

But there’s another surprise. Ethan doesn’t try to set Spencer up with anyone, not even as he has a glass of wine with them before his set and Spencer explains that they’re not together, just co-workers. Emily just smiles and agrees and wryly thinks that Spence probably wouldn’t have to worry as much about seeming ‘uncool’ if he ran with the line that they were casual fuck-buddies instead of ‘just friends’. Despite resetting his status back to single, Spencer doesn’t seem worried that Ethan will try to find him a date or tease him about his relationship non-status…

In fact, as Emily watches them together, and maybe it’s the wine or her over-active libido, Ethan almost seems _pleased_. The slight air of stiffness between the two men vanishes and they relax easily into the kind of friendship Emily hasn’t had since college. Joking, laughing, sly references to events outside of Emily’s sphere of knowledge. With anyone other than Spencer, she’d feel like an outsider sitting in, but he eagerly draws her into the conversation with an air of pride that makes her feel a little embarrassed, almost, that he clearly thinks so highly of her. She gets the feeling that he’s flaunting her a little, but not to show-off—more because he’s _proud_ she’s here by his side, proud that he has the opportunity to regale Ethan with tales of their work and their lives, and she’s wishes she had something she was as passionate about to add to the conversation.

The wine does its job before their meal and she’s not tipsy yet, but she will be soon. Ethan vanishes and plays his set—he’s a wonderful singer, with the kind of low baritone that she’s not ashamed to admit she fantasizes a little about, all deep and honeyed, and a fantastic musician. Their meal is delightful, she’s full and now _definitely_ tipsy, and the lights are dimming. If she wasn’t here with Spencer, she’d be feeling a little bit romantic right about now. Of course, she _is_ here with Spencer, so what she’s feeling isn’t really romance, but more like wanting to get him home and out of his silly jazz-themed tie and onto his back. Suit-jacket optional.

“He’s very good,” she tells Spencer, who beams. Proud of both of his friends tonight, his eyes a little glazed from the wine that he’s on his fourth glass of, and she feels stupidly affectionate towards him in that moment, reaching under the table to take his hand. He returns the gesture, beaming at her and squeezing back, his palm warm and comfortable.

“He’s _amazing_ ,” Spencer says firmly, as though there was never any doubt, and that’s when Ethan returns. Emily swallows. Red wine fucks her up. It always goes straight for the two places it knows it’ll hit her the most: her head and between her legs, and it doesn’t help that she’s always had a thing for grungy men with a bit of rough to them. Gone is Ethan’s neatly-tied back hair and groomed composure. The stage make-up he’s wearing—just enough so that the lights don’t wash out his skin and eyes—has mostly been wiped clean, but he’s neglected to remove the eye-liner and it leaves him looking raccoon-ringed but in a hauntingly sharp kind of way. His hair is messy, he’s a little sweaty and giddy, and the tight-ass jeans and slim-fitting leather jacket aren’t helping.

 _Down, girl,_ she tells herself, because there’s nothing ruder than thanking a friend for a wonderful night out than spending that whole night imagining nailing _his_ friend.

Ethan, with firm disregard for her trying to ignore how fucking pretty he is, drops onto the couch on the other side of Spencer—pressed dangerously close to the other man’s side, as though he’s well aware of Spencer’s proximity alarms and somehow is amused by his discomfort—and slings an arm around his friend’s shoulder, immediately launching into a story about a broken bassoon before they even have time to congratulate him on his performance. Spencer, confounding all her understanding of him, keeps happily picking away at his thoroughly shredded garlic bread, taking no notice of the arm around his shoulder or the man pressed to his side.

 _Interesting,_ she thinks, and refills her glass.

The night continues like this. Ethan isn’t shy with his affection and, as they progress onwards towards the drunken side of the night, Spencer even returns a few of the casual gestures.

“Are you okay?” Spencer asks suddenly, and he’s watching her curiously. “You’ve got the strangest facial expression right now…”

“Hmm?” Emily asks, snapping to attention. “Oh, yes, uh. Yes. I. Yes.” Now they’re both looking at her, like twin meerkats on the opposite side of the table: one geeky, one grunge.

Fuck.

“Just wondering how you guys met!” she finishes cheerfully, and then winces. Way too cheerful.

“College, oh boy! Ethan booms, and launches into yet another story that somehow, Emily doubts happened, unless Spencer is _way_ more open to casual trespass than what she thinks he is. Spencer seems to have zoned out of the conversation, staring down at his garlic bread steeple with his ears burning red. Embarrassed about the trespass story, no doubt, as it takes a sharp turnaround and suddenly Spencer is being caught half-naked in a pig trough. In Vegas.

She touches his foot with hers under the table. He twitches a little and shoots her a strange look.

So she does it again, smirking a bit with his own mouth twitches.

And, once more, this time slipping her heel off and running her foot up his calf, almost giving herself away by laughing as he makes the queerest kind of squeaking noise.

“You alright there, Pig Boy?” Ethan asks, looking at Spencer, who in turn shoots Emily a strangled look. All flushed and wide-eyed and twitchy: she knows that expression. She’s not the only one torn between staying out or going home. And jeez, she’d only touched his _leg_. He’s never been a marathon runner, but he normally has _some_ staying power. “Hey, we should go out. Hit a club or something. I’m too fucking old to go dancing, but I’ll be damned if that’ll stop me.”

Emily examines Spencer. Spencer examines the garlic bread.

Ethan brings his hands out of his lap and rests his chin in them, looking woeful.

“That could be nice,” Spencer mumbles to the garlic bread.

Emily, smirking, nods along. If he’s this worked up now, well, if she can get him out on the dance floor…

Shit, that’ll make the whole night worth it; she’s always loved to make him squirm.

 

* * *

 

Ethan is pushing it.

Spencer’s always loved that about him. He’s bold where Spencer is mousey, sharp where Spencer is meek, charming where Spencer is… well, Spencer. In return, Spencer—as he likes to comment grumpily—brings the brains of the operation.

Except, tonight, Ethan seems intent on redirecting the brains that Spencer brings elsewhere.

Emily vanishes to the bathroom before they leave the jazz club to find somewhere no doubt seedier and darker with more fluorescent drinks available, and Spencer drags Ethan to the side with a hand through his cheeky friend’s belt loop.

“What?” Ethan asks innocently, like he hasn’t spent the last hour trying to circumspectly get his hand into Spencer’s pants under the table while Emily was sitting _barely an arm’s length away_. “You didn’t say _no_.”

“I couldn’t!” Spencer squeaks, knowing he’s bright red, knowing he’s still almost hard and fucking thankful for the thick weave of his own pants. “She’d have guessed!”

Ethan smirks a little, but there’s a softness to his eyes that always manages to take Spencer’s breath away, even now when they haven’t been anything to each other for years. “You used to like it,” he murmurs, using Spencer’s grip on his pants to inch closer, leaning as though to be heard clearer through the clamour of a new band playing and instead nipping at Spencer’s ear. “This, you used to like this…”

Spencer did. He does.

He is.

“We’re not twenty anymore,” he continues firmly. Very firmly. _Uncomfortably_ firmly. “We’re not playing the ‘let’s get Spencer off in public game’, not tonight, not in front of _Emily_.”

“Hmm,” Ethan says, but he does back off a bit. “Saw her watching you, boyo. You and her, you doing that?” Spencer feels himself go, if possible, redder, and refuses to answer. But Ethan knows him well enough he doesn’t need him to. “Thought so,” he replies. Tilting his head, he’s smiling again, and it’s the kind of smile that, coupled with the wine, finishes the job of turning Spencer on. He’s half-hard, far too focused on the rush of blood in his ears and the thump of his over-excited heartbeat, and that’s not at all helped by Ethan adding: “Saw her watching us. I don’t think she’d mind at all, man. Not at all…”

“What are you implying?” Spencer asks, but Ethan is already turning and waving his arm to catch Emily’s attention. “Ethan!”

But the man has never listened to him before, and he doubts he’s going to start now. Spencer sighs, adjusts his pants awkwardly, and tries to look innocent.

That lasts until the dancefloor.

It’s three hours later. Spencer’s lost track of the drinks he’s had and he’s pretty sure he mixed them, which is never a good sign, and he’s glad for Emily’s arm around his. They’re finally at a club where the clientele doesn’t make even _Spencer_ feel too old to be included, but it does however have the kind of darkly lit dancefloor that Ethan in their twenties had always taken as an excuse to be handsy. Feeling pleased with himself for avoiding catastrophe, Spencer instead dances with Emily. He knows there’s no escape from dancing, not this many drinks in and not in this kind of place, so he figures at least this way he won’t end up becoming a one a.m. spectacle, unlike that one time in Atlanta…

“You’re tense,” Emily says into his ear, cupping her mouth so she can be heard. Spencer pulls her closer, heady and pleased at the rewarding sensation of her soft sweater and muted perfume. She’s both lax and sharp in his arms, responding to his goading and following where he leads, and he can’t help but give in and brush his mouth against hers as the lights flicker and throb overhead. It’s not the kind of music he knows how to dance to, the discordant beat throwing every one of his senses out of whack if the smell of so many people and scents pressed together wasn’t already doing that, but she’s a point of fixation that he can return to again and again and know she’s constant.

“I’m—” he begins, but a hand brushes his elbow. Ethan. Spencer looks at him and _really_ feels the alcohol he’s consumed; the blue lights flickering overhead are doing strange things to the line of Ethan’s cheekbones and the shape of his darkened eyes, and both that and the focused intensity of Ethan’s expression are enough to take up all his best intentions and throw them out of the window.

He wants. He wants the woman in his arms. He wants the man teasingly offering to show Emily how a real man dances. He wants them both.

He just _wants_.

“I need a break,” Emily shouts over the music, slipping away like smoke. “Enjoy each other!”

If she winks, he ignores it.

And then she’s gone, the crowd closes around them, another song drops and sends his stomach dropping with it, and Ethan’s against him and effortlessly steering him out of the crowd and against a secluded wall, still hidden by the writhing mass of bodies but out of notice of anyone who doesn’t care to watch.

“Say no now,” Ethan breathes, all hands and heat and a hot, firm body pressed against his, dragging their hips together and bringing his mouth to Spencer’s throat. “Say it and I won’t overstep.”

And instead of saying any of that, Spencer says: “I find the concept of a ‘real man’ problematic.”

Ethan looks at him.

Spencer shuffles forward, just a little, and presses his hips against the other man’s clear interest. Wherever Ethan’s been hiding—by the bar, he assumes, since his breath is whiskey-sharp—he’s been thinking of Spencer. Thinking about this. Likely thinking about more. Spencer shivers, feels a twitch of interest turn into a pooling heat, and adds, “Convince me otherwise.” He’s never had any willpower around Ethan. Tonight, he’s not inclined to try and fight that.

Ethan draws Spencer out onto the dancefloor and shows him exactly how to dance.

 

* * *

 

She’s starting to feel like Goldilocks and the Three Shit Dancers—this guy is too handsy and almost gets a finger broken in doing so; this one isn’t handsy enough and she feels like she’s dancing with Hotch at his stiffest; this one is just right but way too boring—when she realizes that Ethan and Reid are nowhere to be found. The dancefloor is dark, dingy, and crowded, and that should make it impossible to see them in the discordant press of bodies around her, but she knows they’ve vanished anyway. There’s an art to being noticed in these places, an art to drawing attention, and Ethan has perfected it. People look at him, make room for him, and especially so when he and Reid are dancing in such uniform precision that it’s almost impossible to tell where one man ends at the other begins.

Emily knows she’s got an active imagination and is probably a few too many gins in to be avoiding her biases here, but Ethan and Reid dance like they’re fucking and that’s not a sight that’s easily missed. One more scan of the crush around her and she dismisses man #3 in favour of going to find her wayward companions, unconsciously slipping into a well-practised spiral search pattern as she works her way from the inside out looking for Dr. Gangly and his jazzy friend.

They’re not on the dancefloor or by the bar. The booth they had been sitting in has been taken over by a couple rigorously exploring as much of each other as they can without taking any clothes off. They’re not lined up for the bathrooms and she doubts they’re in there after awkwardly lurking by the door for a good three minutes, internally grumbling about how much faster the male bathroom line goes compared to the female. Remembering the square shape of a packet of smokes breaking the tight line of Ethan’s jeans, she wanders out to a broken fire door and decides to risk the alley in search of her missing companions, sure, as she shoves the door open and slides outside into the silent night, that she’s going to find Spencer panicking over the crowd or Ethan making out with—

Emily almost falls off the step, hardly quiet as she slides to a sudden uncoordinated halt, but it hardly matters because the two men are completely deaf to her behind them. In fact, some small part of her drunken brain is grumpily making a note about telling Spencer to be more _vigilant_ in dingy alleyways, but the majority of her brain has bowed down and out to her limbic system as it notes how fucking _into it_ they are.

She thinks it’s Ethan she’s standing behind. It has to be Ethan. He’s tall and broad with Ethan’s leather jacket over his shoulders and his hands tightly gripping the hips of the man he’s pushed up against the wall. Head twisted awkwardly, all she can see of the man in front is the broken line of his torso as he twists around to face his partner, their ragged breathing shifting with the twist and gasp of their bodies. One of his hands is braced against the wall, the other holding him in place. Her mouth slips open; she has to say _something_ , right as Ethan shoves the man in front roughly against the wall, hips grinding hard against his ass as he groans wantonly against his partner’s neck.

And she freezes, a sharp kick-jolt of hot desire sinking straight down her spine and turning into a wet flush between her own hips, her brain recognising that moan.

It’s Spencer. It’s Spencer with Ethan folded up helplessly in front of him; Spencer who, as she watches, executes a perfect hold on the broader man and mouths at the back of his neck as he growls, fucking _growls_ , “Feel what you’ve done to me? Toying with me like that?”

Ethan makes a noise, a helpless, strangled kind of noise, and turns to try and kiss Spencer against with a hazy kind of, “ _yes_.” His eyes meet Emily’s. They, for a moment, stare at each other. He mouths, “Emily.” Despite his attempt to sound put together, his voice is fucked and his cheeks are pink. Spencer lurches away, spinning to face Emily with his face dropping into a shocked kind of _O_ and his eyes going all wide, every shade of power he’d just shown leeching away. But Ethan’s hair is still wild, their clothes are ruffled, and there’s a red mark on Ethan’s throat that’s almost certainly going to be an impressive hickey. Emily looks down because she’s drunk and horny and not in complete control of her emotions; Spencer’s trousers are undone, slid haughtily down his thin hips, and he’s so fucking hard she can see the dark spot on his boxer briefs from here.

“Uh,” says Spencer, his mouth flapping cartoonishly. But, even as he internally panics, Ethan sidles up behind him, his agile fingers slipping around Spencer’s pelvic bone to settle over the open V of his trousers, chin leaning on Spencer’s shoulder, shifting in just the kind of way that Emily knows he’s rubbing against the man from behind.

“I don’t think she minds,” he rumbles, turning his head and nipping at Spencer’s neck in a way that Emily knows melts him into a helpless puddle of aroused goo. Despite her eyes on them, despite being caught, Spencer’s eyes flicker, his mouth goes slack; she’s seen him this desperate to get off before but never this early on, usually only _after_ she’s gotten her pants off. Whatever Ethan’s done to him, he’s a little drunk and incredibly horny, and her own gut drops into her shoes with a sudden shock of _oh my god_ picturing what they’re absolutely going to do to each other as soon as they find a room. Or possibly before.

Spencer moans softly, his chin dropping forward as he tries to hide the noise, and she reaffirms: definitely before.

“I don’t mind,” she manages, leaning back to make sure the door is firmly shut behind them, making sure Spencer sees the heated gaze she shoots him when he looks back up at her. Heated because her active imagination has taken this a run a mile; polished diplomat’s daughter she might be, but right now all she can think about is how openly aroused the two men in front of her are and just how good they’d feel pressed into and against her. “Would you like me to, uh… go?”

And Ethan smiles. It’s a catty smile, the look he’d shot her as he’d danced with Spencer earlier that night, cheeky and very sharp. His fingers curl down, press down, and Spencer twitches with a choked gasp as they begin to stroke him through his cotton underwear, so slowly and painfully that she’s turned on just watching.

“That would be disappointing,” he says, letting go and stepped away from Spencer. His own jeans are bulging painfully at the front even as he tries to adjust them. “Because I’ve been thinking about both of you all night…” He tapers off with a look that sweeps her top to toe without being lecherous, and it leaves her flushing in all the best places. “…Spencer’s just hard to convince to have _fun_.”

She raises an eyebrow, feeling twenty instead of almost double that, and asks incredulously, “Are you asking me on a threesome with _Spencer Reid_?”

Spencer has slipped over to her, looking guilty as he tries to do his pants up with shaking hands. “I told him not to be crass,” he says, the arousal fading and leaving him worried. “Em, don’t do anything you’re not comfortable with…”

She steps closer to him, brushing his hands aside and curling her fingers around the rough fabric of his pants, just barely brushing his cock. Against her fingers, he twitches with interest. “Oh, I’m comfortable,” she reassures him, pulling him closer and standing on tiptoe to kiss him fiercely. He melts into her kiss in a way he hadn’t with Ethan, always languid when she does what she wants to him. And when she breaks it, she whispers: “I bet he’s pretty when he comes.”

Spencer looks fucked, like all his dreams have come true at once. “God, Emily,” he whispers, eyes going, somehow, wider, “He’s gorgeous. You’ll see.”

He leads her from that alley, hand in hand, and she’s sure she can’t wait.

 

* * *

 

In bed with Emily, Spencer’s happy to let her lead. She’s bold and brash and cheeky and he loves how much she’ll let herself go in the pursuit of both of their pleasure.

In bed with Ethan, nothing gets Spencer off harder than the man doing as he’s told. If there’s anything he’s almost guilty about, it’s just how much that turns him on. And he’s pretty sure Emily’s not quite ready to see that. In fact, he’s so sure that he manages to restrain himself right up until all three of them file into Spencer’s apartment and Ethan is suddenly pressing him up against the wall with a low moan that suggests he’s been working himself up the whole awkward walk home.

Spencer had wanted to ask the logistics of this, ask if Emily was really comfortable, ask if _Ethan_ was comfortable, since his threesome etiquette isn’t exactly up to scratch, but that’s impossible when there’s a mouth on his and a firm body tapping him ruthlessly against the wall, and all the tangled rush of _need_ he’d felt on the dancefloor and in that alley has returned with a vengeance.

The erection he’d willed away on the walk home is back and Ethan’s rubbing against it, hands fumbling for his pants, sliding them down. Spencer moans helplessly as suddenly his underwear are being pulled unceremoniously down as well and he’s being stroked firmly with no _hi, hello. Thump_ goes his head on the wall as he sags into that warm, almost rough grip, and he opens his mouth to say something and instead moans against into Ethan’s mouth as the man takes that as an excuse to slip his tongue inside. Ethan kisses like he needs it, like there’s nothing he’d rather be doing. It’s slow and quick all once, flavoured with whiskey, desperate, and it’s pushy right up until Spencer gives him what he wants.

If Spencer likes telling him; Ethan likes being told.

 _Emily,_ he remembers suddenly, and twists around to stare helplessly at her, lost for words. But she’s staring back, her shoulders against the door as she leans against it and examines them openly, her eyes only a little larger than usual to suggest she’s surprised. When she realises he’s looking, she meets his gaze; she’s biting her lip and her pupils are wide. Ethan was right, when he’d ground up against Spencer on the dancefloor and waited until Spencer was too turned on to think straight before whispering, _she’s getting off on watching us_. Sober and clear-minded, Spencer would usually have been appalled by his crassness in referring to Spencer’s friend. Drunk and helplessly turned on?

He’d almost come right there.

Ethan’s realised he’s distracted. He abandons Spencer’s throat and slumps against him, hand still wrapped about Spencer’s dick and chest heaving, and looks at Emily too before saying, loud enough for both of them to hear, “Come on, man, she’s waiting for a show. Give her something pretty to look at.”

Spencer actually sees her pupils dilute just that little bit more.

Never let it be said he disappoints. He loves Ethan’s hair, he always has, and when he turns his attention back to the man against him, he lifts his hands and draws them through that hair, slowly. Feeling his fingers slide against the man’s scalp; slowly and gently pulling the hair tie loose and letting it fall free into his hands. The hair tie he loops over his wrist before doing it again, slower this time; tangling his fingers through that long, slightly sweaty hair before using his grip on Ethan’s head to pull their mouths together. Not to kiss, not at first; Ethan loves the pulling pressure of Spencer’s fingers in his hair and he’s lax-mouthed and panting against him. For a moment, as Spencer continues to tease his way through with the pads of his fingers working luxurious circles into his scalp, they do nothing but lean their mouths together with Ethan’s eyes closed and his heartbeat hammering.

Spencer kisses him. Slow. Almost tediously. He draws it up and up with his lips and the slightest hint of teeth, his fingers pressing down and spreading out before pulling gently at the roots; Ethan moans. It’s a surprised moan, breathy, and clearly completely involuntary.

“Holy fuck,” Emily says nearby. “What the fuck.”

But she sounds pleased, so he doesn’t break apart to check.

Ethan’s eyes flicker open and Spencer hisses, drawing back just a little, at the fucked-out expression Ethan gives him, strangely emotional and too worked up. “Baby,” he hisses, a pet-name that Spencer had always complained about but still makes his heart gallop a little to hear, especially with the addition of Ethan suddenly shoving him back to the wall and kissing him fiercely, breaking each kiss with a gasped, _“yes, god, just like that,”_ his knee working Spencer’s legs apart so they can find the friction to rut against the other. His next words are for Spencer alone: “Let me get you off,” he whispers, mouthing at the lobe of Spencer’s ear with his own fingers brushing the head of Spencer’s cock; “I want you to last. I want to fuck you in front of her, gorgeous, I want to see you fuck her. She’s so pretty, so pretty, I can’t stop thinking about you in her.”

“Fu—” Spencer almost swears, biting back the curse and bucking into the other man’s grip at the surge of desire that sparks his entire body red-hot at those purred words. He looks at Emily, a quick-sharp look, and she’s still against the door with her hand pressed to the front of her jeans, her mouth bitten white.

“Let me, please,” Ethan’s still asking, pleading, “tell me to get you off. Show her how good you are to me.”

Spencer nods dazedly. As amazing as the offer would be regardless, he’s not too proud to admit that he’s going to need help making it through this night if this is what he’s going to be facing; the two people he loves the most focusing their attention not only on him but also on each other. The imagery alone has him wincing as he feels a hungry pull deep in his groin as his body stupidly overprepares.

And then he pushes the thought aside, just like Ethan likes, and makes sure his grip is tight and spread wide so he doesn’t hurt him, before managing: “Show me, then. Use your mouth.”

“Like this?” Ethan asks, and kisses him, a heated kiss.

“No,” Spencer breathes when they break apart, guiding him down using his hand in his hair.

“Oh… like _this_ ,” Ethan purrs, and tilts his hand back to mouth at Spencer’s fingers as they slide free of his hair. Sucking two of them into his mouth and sliding along them slowly, his mouth hot and tongue clever, and Spencer’s cock jerks between his legs. “Or… this.”

And, he slides free of Spencer’s fingers, and instead replaces those fingers with his dick instead, swallowing him down with absurd ease. Spencer cries out hoarsely, bucking back against the wall and swearing helplessly as, instead of holding him back, Ethan instead rides the motion smoothly. Swallowing as he goes, his throat and mouth and tongue working in unison to draw every drop of reason out of Spencer through his cock. Then he pulls back, slowly, almost sliding off before repeating the motion and this time humming down the length of him.

Spencer, worked up for hours now, is gone. Hands back in Ethan’s hair without any qualm this time for being gentle, he yells accidentally before biting his lip to try and quieten himself.

“Don’t,” Emily gasps, and she’s watching them with her own jeans undone and fingers hidden under the line of the denim, “Spence, don’t be quiet. Talk to me.”

Spencer shakes his head, hisses, uses his hands to guide Ethan into a quicker speed, glancing down and catching a glimpse of the cocky expression Ethan shoots up at him. “I, _fuck_ ,” he moans, feeling a pulling sensation building, seeing Ethan’s eyes flicker as he registered how close Spencer was. “That’s perfect, Eth, you’re perfect. I’m close, I’m clo— _ah_!” Half-strangled, his moan is more of a groan as he comes in a rush, hips jabbing helplessly forward as Ethan swallows around him, keeping on and keeping on until Spence is sliding down the wall, whimpering a little at the sensitive bursts of discomfort as a tongue laps around his softening cock and Ethan finally slips free. Lips red and wet, eyes huge, Ethan catches him as he slumps and nuzzles close.

Spencer kisses him, tasting his own semen on the man’s lips, gasping a little as he struggles to catch his breath.

“That was… whoa,” Emily manages from somewhere distantly behind them. Ethan chuckles, his laugh deep and resonating through Spencer’s pounding body.

“That was nothing,” Ethan promises. “Give him a bit to recharge and I’ll show you _exactly_ how gorgeous he can be.”

“Oh no,” Spencer whimpers, earning shit-eating grins from them both. Resigned to his fate, he directs them to where to find blankets to curl up in while they watch a movie and wait—making sure the movie isn’t a favourite. He doubts they’ll see the end of it.

 

* * *

 

When Spencer twitches and makes a soft noise behind her, she knows just from that. She knows the sounds he makes, knows them intimately. Instead of reacting, she huddles a little more under the suspiciously shifting blankets and shifts her hips backward in an implicit invitation that Spencer accepts. He moves forward, leaning his mouth against the back of her neck as the suddenly uninteresting movie plays on, twitching again and muffling his gasp by kissing along the bumps of her spine, leaving a cold line of goosebumps on her skin. His hand shifts to her hips, he tugs her back against the chest containing his rapidly beating heart.

“You’re making him squirm,” she scolds Ethan. The man simply chuckles in reply, and Spencer jerks his hips forward with a huff, the hands around her waist tightening as she rubs back against him. His pants are tugged down, his underwear with them, and she can feel Ethan stroking him harder every time his hips tap forward against her ass. Even as she notes this, Spencer begins sliding her own underwear down, letting her wiggle obediently out of them before he nestles up close with his cock slipping between her legs. God, it’s good. It’s so good. She’s been desperate to feel it, feel anything, since watching Ethan swallow him down effortlessly, making him come as eagerly as if it was all he desired. He twitches again, jolting up and along her and she swears a little, tilting her hips down to feel him press up into the pooling wet. “Where are your hands?” she asks Ethan curiously.

“Don’t ask,” Ethan and Spencer answer as one, even as Spencer barks out a strangled kind of moan and presses up _hard_ behind her, his hand sliding up her shirt to curl almost roughly around her breast. “Yes—” Spencer rasps, cutting the sound off as he buries his face between her shoulder-blades. “I want your clothes off.”

“Mine or Ethan’s?” she asks, enjoying how fraught he sounds right now, rolling around carefully in his arms until she can curl her body back against him with her hand playfully adjusting his cock right where he’ll bump into her every time her jerks forward. She’s not wet enough yet for him to fuck her and he knows it, but the way his eyes glaze a little at realizing what she’s doing goes a long way to rectifying that.

“Both,” he stammers, jerking up and into her and making a strange, hungry noise as he pushes her open, “oh fuck, both, yes. Ethan, again, do that again, _do it_.”

“Anything, baby,” Ethan purrs, and she actually feels him shift his body, push forward. If she focuses, she can almost hear the slick noise of his fingers working Spencer open, and as soon as she realizes that, she’s gone. Fucking gone.

“Em, you just got so wet,” Spencer chokes out as she flushes around his somehow sly cock pushing against her: “What caused that? God, you’re so…” He trails off only because he’s replaced his cock with his fingers, sliding them deep into her without a pause and testing for himself just how wet she’s getting with the knowledge that Ethan’s preparing him for—what?

 _“Oh,”_ she gasps, the heat becoming a fire that steals her breath along with her words, and she curls down onto his clever fingers as he cocks them inside her and makes a satisfied noise at how she’s clutching around him: “He’s going to fuck you, isn’t he?” The words feel wrong. They don’t match up to her understanding of the man behind her, not at all, especially not as he slides his thumb up to her clit and teases her towards a rapidly approaching climax that’s only slightly because of the current stimulation and mostly because she’s picturing what his face would look like if that happens.

Spencer’s quiet for a moment before he presses forward and lays a line of kisses down her throat, her shoulder. “Yes,” he says in a voice like he’s _already_ being fucked, “would you like that?”

There’s nothing she can do but nod.

“How many times can he get you off in a night?” Ethan asks without shame, kneeling and letting the blankets slip from him as he begins to undress swiftly. Emily cranes around to watching him, Spencer withdrawing his hand and letting her roll around and press close to him, keeping her on the edge by rubbing against her clit with the head of his cock while he mouths and sucks at her chest, leaving lines of delicate pinks marks on her flushed skin. And Ethan watches.

“Three is the record,” she says with a raised eyebrow. “Going to beat that, are you? Cocky.” There’s a tube of lube by his leg he’d somehow magicked under the blanket without her noticing and he’s outrageously hard as he removes his pants and underwear. His fingers leave damp marks on the material; Spencer undresses as well after pushing the blanket back and she almost groans when she sees the mess both her desire and his have made of his cock.

“Let’s go for one now,” Spencer answers instead in a voice that isn’t his at all, dropping his shirt and kicking free of his pants before rolling forward to meet her. His weight is sudden and she’s on her back with him enveloping her; hot and sticky and with his mouth on hers, a kind of ferocity in his kissing that she’d seen earlier with Ethan but never felt aimed at her. And he’s _infuriating_ ; pinned like this she can’t fight his weight, he has the upper-hand, and he’s relentless with it. He shifts until his weight is on his knees, still pinning her and kissing her unremittingly, the hand not holding her down adjusting his cock until it’s sliding between her legs. And he presses down.

 _“Fuck,”_ she hisses at the pressure, rocking up. He’s a long, hot, hard line between her legs, and she rubs against him like a cat, gratified by the slow purr of pleasure that rumbles through his chest, like a moan he hadn’t voiced. And he does it again; slow rolls of his hips where he’s not inside her but _along_ her and she can’t help but roll up against him in an uneven rhythm that, damn him, is absolutely going to get her off just on the inexorable pressure against her clit. Inches from hers, his face is flushed and his breath is damp; Ethan’s shifted onto the couch to watch them curiously; when she looks over at him to the side of them, he’s stroking himself with his eyes locked on Spencer’s face. “Spencer, fuck you,” she snarls, “ _touch me properly_.” But, despite this plead, she’s still rubbing against him, her limbs beginning to shake in what’s going to be an absolutely unsatisfying climax, even if he’s just doing it to take the edge off.

“Mmm,” he rumbles, ducking down and biting on her shoulder, gripping, sucking _slowly_ , “ _no_.”

And she whines, fucking _whines_ , jerking up under him in a sweaty slide of skin on skin that accidentally knocks him out of place, his hips twitching upwards and giving his dick room to slip free and down and _oh_.

 _Ah_ , Spencer breathes, a breathy, strange kind of noise like he’s surprised, his eyes going blank and his mouth opening and staying open.

“Uh oh,” says Ethan with a low chuckle, but Emily’s barely listening because with every twitch of his body against hers, every roll of her hips, he’s nudging against her and so close to pushing in that she’s single-mindedly focused on getting his cock into her. Right on the cusp of coming; she needs to finish now, has to finish now, is _so fuckingcloseSpencer fuck, “just fucking fuck me, damnit!”_

Paralysed against her, he does nothing but breathe for the longest, most painful moment of her _fucking life_.

And they’re frozen until, probably only seconds but what feels like an eternity of trembling against each other, Ethan says: “Kiss her,” in a voice like he’s not used to command but sure he’s going to be obeyed anyway.

And Spencer does. Breathlessly and for far too long until they’re both light-headed and there’s a hand between their hips, sliding down Spencer’s cock until it’s curled around the head, between Emily and him, and readjusting him so they’re lined up along each other again.

They break apart, gasping, and Emily turns her head to look at Ethan kneeling next to them as Spencer twists around and is grabbed roughly by the hand Ethan just used to stop them fucking each other. One hand on Spencer’s chin and the other on his hip, Ethan kisses him at the same time he coaxes Spencer down and back onto Emily, so there’s no space between them, nothing but skin and sweat and their bodies. Emily wriggles and whimpers and feels a wet rush between her legs that’s mostly her and a little bit Spencer leaking right before she wraps her legs around him and pulls him down, _hard_ , and holds him there as she comes. Loudly and angrily, only by the pressure of him being pushed down against her; despite her sharp cussing him out for it, she still hears Ethan saying _fucking gorgeous_ before moving away.

Temporarily removed from the action as she shakes the bonelessness from her body, she kisses Spencer thankfully still when he leans in to do so and murmurs, “That’s one,” earning a smile in return before he moves away. She hears the couch squeak a little as Ethan sits back down, hears the soft rumble of their voices, and rolls over with a sated kind of pleasure to watch them together, drawing the blanket back close to cuddle against. It smells like Spencer and a tiny bit like Ethan’s sharper scent, and she pretends she’s not comforted by that.

They’re both naked, a fact which hadn’t escaped her attention before, but that she’s more readily able to appreciate while her sex drive takes a breather and lets her focus on parts other than their, admittedly nice, dicks. Spencer is still skinny, although weightier than he used to be, and she admires his ass as he kneels in front of Ethan, sitting spreadeagled on the couch, and kisses along his knees. Then she looks at Ethan, sharply illuminated against the backlight of the room behind him, and her heart skips a beat as she notices something she should have fucking noticed before, damnit.

Hotch would have her head for being so unobservant.

Ethan’s broad where Spencer is slender, muscled where he’s slim, fierce where Spencer is soft. They’re two complete opposites, except for the neat line of black type just as proudly bared across Ethan’s heart. Emily sits upright, shuffling closer on her knees with the pretence of watching Spencer using his lube-slick fingers to stroke Ethan, if possible, even harder. And there it is: **U+2607**. Not the same as Spencer’s—a quick glance as she shifts to the end of the couch and leans her arms and chin on the arm of it confirms that. Where Ethan’s ends in **7** , Spencer’s ends in **8** , but they’re definitely connected. She’s fascinated and more than a little curious. There’s a history between the men that she can see in the way they know each other, the way they touch each other, the way they _look_ at each other. She’s a little awed by that.

“You okay, Em?” Spencer asks, looking at her. She nods, winking at him as though to encourage him focus on Ethan, but Ethan’s gaze hasn’t shifted at all away from Spencer.

“I’m happy watching for now,” she says quietly, and, when Spencer turns back to what he’s doing, she studies them both.

This is a mystery she’s determined to solve.

 

* * *

 

By this point of the night, there’s nothing sensible running through his mind. Nothing at all except the conscious awareness of his own arousal and a heady longing for the two people sharing that with him. He’d almost lost his head with Emily; hasn’t quite regained that yet; and, as he kneels between Ethan’s legs, he’s a tangled mess of mixed desires. There’s a slick wetness between his legs that his body is attuned to, throbbing around it and leaving him feeling hollow with want. Despite the fact that he’s already gotten off once tonight, his cock is reminding him of how good Emily had felt, how good she would have felt if he’d just given in and taken her there.

Ethan, who unlike Spencer _hasn’t_ gotten off yet, is a mess. He’s slick with pre-come, his hips shifting unconsciously, his breath coming fast. They barely manage to get the condom on him; Spencer fucks Emily bare but he doesn’t question Ethan’s insistence upon protection.

“Are you ready?” Spencer asks him, sweeping the tips of his fingers along Ethan’s stomach and watching his skin twitch under the gently touch.

“Man, I’m ready,” Ethan replies, arching his back a little. Spencer stops him from sliding from the couch, standing and pressing him back down as he bends over and kisses him headedly, before shuffling forward to straddle him. “Ah, Spence, love…”

Spencer winces at the _love_ , his own heart skipping a beat, and he quickly murmurs, “Shh,”, knowing Emily is listening, not willing to bare their past to her yet. Instead, he tilts his hips forward and down, watching as they slide together in a hot, fast touch. And again; just as fast, and they both groan.

“You’re so vocal with him,” Emily says. She’s behind them, walking to get a better view, and Spencer is too focused on watching their cocks together to look at her. “I’ve never heard you so noisy.”

Ethan opens his mouth to say something smartass but Spencer beats him there: “I don’t feel like anyone else like I do with him,” he says, seeing Ethan’s eyes widen; “I can’t help it.”

“Not even Emily?” Ethan asks, as though he’s forgotten Emily is there. Emily makes a noise; Spencer _does_ look at her now, and she looks oddly triumphant.

“It’s different,” he says without knowing the words to describe it, turning around awkwardly until he’s sitting on Ethan’s lap and holding his hand out to her. Ethan, with practised ease, shifts until Spencer is more comfortably seated flush against his back, his arms wrapped around Spencer’s torso, his mouth laying a line of soft kisses along Spencer’s shoulder-blades, his cock nestled warmly along his ass. “Em, you’re different. You’re gorgeous, I feel awed around you, but awe is…”

“Terrifying,” she responds, stepping forward and taking his hands, leaning to kiss him. Naked and beautiful. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me, Spence. I get it. I’m just glad to be able to see you like this, with him.”

“She’s a sweet-talker,” Ethan murmurs against Spencer’s back, one of his hands slipping free to gesture at Emily to pass the lube. She does, both men admiring the line of her legs and ass when she crouches to pick it up; “Clever mouth. I think you should show her how much sweeter yours is while I make sure you’re ready.”

Emily looks bemused but Spencer coaxes her closer, arching forward so Ethan’s fingers can trace along and into him, cold and slick with lube, replacing what’s dried since the blankets. “Come here,” he says to her, until she’s close enough that he can steer up into place with his hands on her hips, bowing forward and nuzzling against the neatly cropped hair with his nose.

She gasps— _Spencer_ —and her fingers tangle in his hair, but that wasn’t a _no_ so he slides his nose down until he finds what he’s looking for and tilts his jaw forward to taste, just a taste.

She whimpers.

She _loves_ this.

“Come closer,” he coaxes her, bringing her forward and easing her legs apart. “That’s good, so good, now, _ah_!” He jerks forward with a gasp because Ethan’s fingers are in him, sliding with unerring ease right to where his body fires with it. “Eth…”

“Keep going,” Ethan instructs.

Spencer does. Gently at first until he’s rewarded by a hot flush of salt-laced warmth on his tongue, and then with more enthusiasm until she’s a shivering, shaking mess in front of him, fingers wrapped in his hair and hips bucking eagerly with the strokes of his tongue. He adds his fingers as Ethan removes his, shifting on his lap so Spencer is pulled close to him, kissing the back of his neck, biting down; Spencer groans into her and loses his rhythm.

“Make him do that again,” Emily demands, dragging her nails gently against Spencer’s scalp, leaving pin-points of hot feeling behind them. Ethan does. Spencer wriggles and speeds up, hearing Emily swear, uncaring, just thinking about the taste of her, the feel of her, the—

She pulls free of his mouth and kneels to kiss him. A wet, hungry kiss that’s too slick and too frantic, her cheeks pink, his jaw aching, his back arched, and—

“Oh,” Spencer breathes, almost jolting forward from surprise, but Emily catches him. She’d known it was coming, steadies him, presses her mouth to his and holds him close as, behind him, Ethan replaces his fingers with the thick head of his cock, slowly, so slowly, beginning to push inside. “Oh oh _ohoh_ , Ethan, Ethan, _Ethan…_ ”

“Slower,” Emily says against his mouth, and Ethan slows. So painfully slow that Spencer can feel every inch, every minute push, every movement. The way all three of their hearts are hammering together. The hitch of Ethan’s breath as he restrains himself, so hard and aroused that Spencer can feel him literally throbbing into him. And it’s so much more than Spencer’s had in so long, so much, that he’s wordless, speechless, just clinging to Emily and trying not to lose control.

And Ethan lets out a breath that’s rough and wild and rasps: “I can’t, I need to speed up, Spence, I _need_ to.”

He nods. He’s ready.

He’s not ready. It’s a pain that mixed with boundless pleasure and he cries out— _fuck_ —and Emily swallows his next moan with his mouth, a wanton sound that he’d be ashamed of voicing if he wasn’t so out of his mind with desire. Ethan pushes in the rest of the way almost roughly, _perfectly_ , pulling Spence down onto his lap until he bottoms out and then stalling. Spencer wiggles, feeling the last few seconds before he’s full, so full, so _fucking full_ that he’s babbling helplessly about the sensation of it.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” Emily’s repeating over and over again, still on her knees with her own hand between her legs and moving quickly as she watches them. “Fuck, this is hot. You’re stupidly hot right now, Spence, you have no idea, _no idea_.”

He has some idea. But it feels so good, so right, that he can’t verbalize, just bounces a little and purrs with satisfaction as Ethan chokes back something probably vulgar as he slips up and down along him.

He twists around, demands, “Kiss me,” and is gratified as Ethan meets him midway with the most awkward, frantic kiss of the night, all tongue and heat and frantic hands trying to grasp each other and slipping loose as every touch of their skin shifts them against where they’re joined together. Spencer can’t help it. He begins to shift, bracing his legs and using that to draw himself up and down, the burning fading and leaving only pleasure behind as every shift of his hips brings Ethan’s cock slamming home.

“Don’t… don’t…fuh-fuh…” Ethan tries to say, but swallows the words down with a moan as he gives in and begins fucking Spencer with as much force as he can, pressed down against the couch by Spencer’s weight; short, angry thrusts up punctured by grunts as his body screams at him to _keep going, harder, deeper,_ and Spencer joins in.

But he can guess who Ethan was struggling to mention—he twists back and motions Emily closer, catches her hands. Brings them to his lips and—even as Ethan fucks him—licks them clean.

“Spencer—” she begins breathlessly, but he gestures her closer, down onto his lap, Ethan whimpering just a little as he realizes what’s happening.

“Down, gorgeous,” he tells her, easing her down gently, so gently, and almost moaning with sheer _relief_ at how beautiful she looks as she lowers herself onto his cock. Hot and tight around him; he sees white. Ethan below him, filling him until he can’t stand to feel it; Emily atop him, so wet and warm and moving just right; he knows he can’t last. “Oh no, Emily, Emily, that’s, _ohhh_.”

“With me,” Ethan says. Spencer tries to understand what he’s saying. Can’t. Can’t think. Can just move. “Emily, here. With me.”

And they begin to move together, in a rhythm that shatters Spencer’s world. He’s gone.

He’s fucking gone.

He hears, so distantly, Emily cry out— _he’s coming_ —and Ethan growl deep in his chest, speeding up, slamming home in three deep strokes, one, two, three; Spencer sobs his name as he feels him begin to shake, pulsing within him, his hand gripping Spencer’s hip so tightly that there’ll be bruises tonight. And Emily doesn’t let up, she keeps fucking him until he’s softening inside her, rippling tighter and tighter and wetter until she finally, finally, chokes out his name and pulls him tight with her nails biting at his skin. Ethan’s shaking, Spencer’s mindless, Emily’s gone.

They stay tangled together in a breathless, sticky mess until one of them comes back to life: Emily first.

“Well,” she says, easing free and leaving a rush of wet behind. Spencer, exhausted and too wrung out to move, stares at the mess he’s made of her thighs as she pulls free and feels a small, deep burn of some primal pride kindle within him. “Thanks a lot, you’ve both ruined me for other men.”

“Welc’,” Ethan mumbles, his head on Spencer’s shoulders. The two of them, without Emily to support them, slump sideways, and Ethan wiggles free, one hand removing the condom, the other pulling Spencer closer. “Come here, love.” Spencer obediently does, after taking the condom and tying it off, carefully reaching out until he can snag his underwear to place it with until Ethan allows him up to dispose of it. Judging from the arms tightening around his waist, that won’t be soon.

“I’ll bin that,” Emily says from far away, dipping in and out view. “I’m gonna have a shower, okay, Spe…”

But her voice is fading. Spencer nods sleepily, huddling closer to Ethan behind him and closing his eyes…

“Love you,” he mumbles.

Against his back, he feels Ethan smile.

 

* * *

 

She’s thoughtfully lathering up her arms using Spencer’s non-scented body lotion when she hears the door open.

“Thought you were asleep,” she calls out, peering around the novelty duckie shower curtain he has hanging to find Ethan, not Spencer, lounging against the doorframe.

“Thought you could use someone to wash your back,” he replies cheekily. She snorts, before jerking her head to let him in. See if she makes room for him under the stream though—he has to _earn_ his place there. “Spencer’s out cold. We’re going to have to carry him to bed.” He says it fondly, his tone soft.

“You love him,” she says. She’s never been one to trade punches before getting to the point and he seems to appreciate that, taking the body lotion from her and studying the ingredients before indicating she should turn her back to him.

“I’m not sure if this is a conversation I should really be having with you.” His hands are somehow gentle and forceful all at once, kneading deep along her muscles. It’s good. She relaxes, enjoying the sensation of her body relaxing from the battered she’d given it today, allowing the thread of exhaustion to begin worming through her now she’s almost clean. “I don’t know you well enough.”

“You knew me well enough to invite me to a threesome.”

“Oh, honey, you don’t need to know someone at _all_ to tell that they’d be tremendous in a threesome. I could tell as soon as I saw you sitting with him—you couldn’t take your eyes off us.”

She turns in the water, looking at him. His hands are soapy, his smile wicked, and she shifts around to let him take a turn before he gets _too_ chilly. “Give me that,” she says, taking the wash and poking him in the ass. “I get cranky when I’m cold, fair warning.”

“I’ll be quick.”

He is, relatively, with her helping along where he’ll let her. They’re awkward now without Spencer as a buffer, but there’s enough left unsaid between them that they don’t abandon the shower. Then they’re swapped again, and he’s thoughtfully shampooing his hair to get the product out while she finishes scrubbing her own hair, skin pink from the hot water.

She waits until he’s facing her before stepping closer, out of the stream, and tracing her finger across his tattoo. “What does this mean?”

“He hasn’t told you?”

All she has to do to that is raise an eyebrow, and he laughs. “Of course he hasn’t,” she says, “you’re both useless. Come on, I saw the way you look at each other. I’m not blind, and he’s not either. What are you dancing around?”

“History,” he says shortly. She motions for him to continue, tugging the ducks back and stepping out of the shower, towelling dry as he seems to consider her offer, before perching with her ass against the sink. “We dated.”

“Obviously.”

He glares at her. “We dated _seriously_.”

She only really needs to glance at the tattoo to make her point. “Obviously?”

Ethan shrugs. “He moved. He had work. I had my music. That’s it. I don’t really know what more you want—it was fun, he’s great in bed, it’s been years. We fuck around when we see each other. We fuck around with others. He’s going to find an intelligent, vivacious woman like you who’ll complement his reservations and understand his pathological need to put himself in danger, and then it’ll be over for good. Full stop.”

The pipes in the wall clatter a bit as he turns them off, mouth thin, standing sadly in the dripping shower with his skin steaming and his eye makeup even smearier than usual. Emily digs around in the medicine cabinet, knowing she left a packet of wipes in there, passing them to him wordlessly and watching him daub at his eyes.

“You look at him like you’re in love,” she says simply, passing him a towel when he’s done and watching him sling it around his hips.

And he replies quietly, “I am.” Silence falls between them. “I always have been. This?” As he points to the tattoo, she stands to get a closer look. “It’s Unicode. An internationally recognised consistent standard for encoding symbols. Every symbol gets a code. A unique number for every character, spanning most of the world’s writing systems. We got drunk and got them on a dare… years ago. God, it was years ago. I was stupid, wanting something to remember that time by that wasn’t as irresponsible as a name. He went along with me because I loaded him with spirits first and they always make him silly. But we fought, you know, because he didn’t know why I was _so_ adamant that I had 2607 while he had 2608…”

“Because you come first?” she teases, but without force. He smiles nonetheless.

“Hardly. The opposite actually.” As he steps from the stall and dries himself, he twitches his head for her to follow him. She does, back out to the living room where Spencer sleeps in a tangle of sticky limbs. Ethan conjures a damp cloth from somewhere—probably back in the bathroom while Emily was considering how fucking _nerdy_ her damn co-worker was—and perches next to him, his own fingers tracing the tattoo that shifts gently as Spencer breathes. “Thunder,” Ethan continues in a whisper. Emily’s heart skips a little. “His is the Unicode symbol for a thunderstorm…”

“And yours?”

Ethan smiles wistfully. “I was so determined to have it,” he says. “You know, it felt so perfect. A thunderstorm has multiple lightning strikes, but lightning only ever strikes once for a single storm… I knew what we had wasn’t going to fade. Not for me. I’d hoped I was wrong…”

The expression on his face, so raw and open as he looks down at Spencer, says otherwise.

“Lightning,” murmurs Emily.

Ethan nods.

“You know,” she says after a beat, walking towards them and carefully touching his shoulder, “it’s an old wives’ tale.”

“What is?”

“That lightning only strikes once.”

 

* * *

 

He drifts awake only once, too many hands guiding him to the bedroom and helping him into the bed. He vaguely remembers a warm, wet cloth cleaning the worst of the mess from his legs and sleepily slurs a _thank you_ , earning a kiss on his forehead in return. It’s soft and gentle. _Emily,_ he recognises, and tilts his head back to meet her lips, a warm bubble of affection building in his chest underneath the sleepiness.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says from far away, “I’ll take the spare bed. Good luck.”

He drifts some more; the bed dips and hands brush his sides, a mouth kissing his back. Warm. Firm. He rolls and snuggles against Ethan, humming with contentment at the familiar scent. And he dreams of a welcomed storm rolling towards him:

_Hey, Spence… I’m thinking of moving to DC._

_Please do._

**Author's Note:**

> This will be the final attempt at the Alphabet Smut Challenge as I'm no longer working on that challenge.


End file.
